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stroke.
    The carriage clattered to a stop, shaking her out of her uneasy thoughts. Artemas reached out and turned
    down the carriage lamp. Then he grasped the curtain and pulled it aside. She watched, unwillingly riveted
    by the controlled power of his movements as he looked out into the night.
    "Well, madam, we have arrived at the west gate. As you can see, it is quite busy, even at this hour. I
    cannot believe any young girl could be spirited off in a carriage in front of so many people. Not unless she
    wished to be carried away."
    Madeline leaned forward to examine the scene. The grounds were lit with a multitude of colorful lamps.
    The low price of a ticket made it possible for people from all walks of life to purchase an evening's
    entertainment inside the Dream Pavilions. Ladies and gentlemen, members of the country gentry,
    shopkeepers, apprentices, maids, footmen, dandies, military officers, rakes, and rogues—all came and
    went through the brightly illuminated gates.
    Hunt had a point, she thought. There were any number of people and vehicles in the vicinity. It would
    have been difficult for a woman to be dragged forcibly into a carriage without someone taking notice.
    "The kidnapping did not take place directly in front of the gate," Madeline said. "Alice told me that she
    and Nellie were standing at the entrance to a nearby lane waiting for the carriage I sent to fetch them
    when the ruffians appeared." She studied the dark entrance to a narrow street. "She must have meant that
    corner over there where those young boys are loitering about."
    "Hmm."
    His skepticism was palpable. Madeline glanced at him, alarmed. If he did not take the matter seriously,
    they would achieve nothing tonight. She knew that time was running out. "Sir, we must hurry. If we do
    not move swiftly, Nellie will disappear into the stews. It will be impossible to find her."
    Artemas allowed the curtain to fall back into place over the window. His hand closed on the door
    handle. "Remain here. I shall return in a few minutes."
    She sat forward quickly. "Where are you going?"
    "Calm yourself, Mrs. Deveridge. I have no intention of abandoning the quest. I shall return after I have
    made a few inquiries."
    He vaulted lightly down from the carriage and shut the door before she could demand further details.
    Irritated and dismayed by the manner in which he had suddenly taken charge, she watched him walk
    toward the entrance to the dark lane.
    She saw him make a few deft adjustments to his greatcoat and hat and was astonished at the result.
    Within a few steps he had completely altered his appearance.
    Although he no longer looked like a gentleman who had just come from his club, he still moved with a
    fluid self-confidence that she recognized immediately. It was so very similar to the way Renwick had
    carried himself that it sent a shudder through her. She would forever associate that sleek, prowling stride
    with skilled practitioners of the fighting arts of Vanza. She wondered again if she had made a grave
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    mistake.
    Stop it, she scolded herself. You knew what you were about tonight when you sent the message into
    his club. You wanted his assistance and now, for better or worse, you have got it.
    On the positive side, in terms of his physical appearance, Hunt bore no resemblance at all to her dead
    husband. For some reason she found that fact oddly reassuring. With his blue eyes, pale hair, and
    romantically handsome features, Renwick had mocked the golden-haired angels in the paintings of the
    great artists.
    Hunt, on the other hand, could have posed for the devil himself.
    It was not just his near-black hair, green eyes, and stark, ascetic face that gave the impression of dark,
    unplumbed depths. It was the cold, knowing expression in his gaze that sent icy little frissons along her
    nerves. This was a man who had explored the outer reaches of hell. Unlike Renwick, who